The Death Of A Bachelor
by Yester Darling
Summary: When death tears Arthur's fiancee, Francis, away from him, the Englishman is devistated, losing his will to go on. Upon discovering that the spirit of his dead lover is trapped behind the glass of mirrors, he clings to the hope that they will be together again, refusing to let go of him again. He's willing to make the relationship work again, no matter the cost. Halloween 2016.
1. Prologue

He loved him, of course.

They had met at the party of an aristocrat, heaven knows which one. Once formally introduced, they had spent much of the night chatting. Discussing the state of the empire and debating over the social status of their countries.

It was exhilarating.

Gradually, they began to meet more and more often for amounts of time that were ever increasing. And naturally, as fate would have it, their courtship began.

It would never matter how often they bickered and bantered. The adoration that shone in their eyes for one another was as clear as the stars on a cloudless night, and the arguments of the past fell to the power of forgiveness over time.

It didn't matter about the rumors people gossiped about how their families secretly had pushed them together, or that they were only doing it for status. The lies of the public did not matter, only the truth.

And the truth was that they loved each other. On some moonlit evenings, they strode through the park and talked until the wee hours of the night when many assumed that only vagabonds were out. On some evenings, while visiting one another's homes, they simply sat in the parlor, and each enjoyed the company of the other.

"Arthur," he had said to him on one such night. It was quiet, except for the sound of Autumn rain against the cobblestone streets outside. Kerosene lamps and thin candles illuminated the room just enough to see, the flames flickering against the darkness surrounding them. Over all, despite the darkness, the parlor was intimate and cosy.

The Englishman looked up from the thick novel he had been reading by the light of the lamp.

"Yes, Francis? What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

He chuckled at the joke they shared. "Yes, I do."

The Frenchman smiled to him, getting to his feet and striding over to his beau. "Then why don't we make it official?" he asked, his accent coating his words like sweet honey.

Arthur froze, his heart nearly missing a beat. Make it official? "Surely you don't mean- are you asking me to marry you?" A nod and a smile confirmed his suspicions as the Frenchman took Arthur's hand in his own, gently kissing his pale, slender knuckles.

Surprised at the sudden offer being made, the Englishman bit his lip. "And you're sure about it?" He inquired. "You want to marry someone like me?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure, mon cher," Francis promised before reverting back to his native tongue. "Je t'aime, et je ne veux pas être loin de toi. Je veux te montrer ce que nous resterons ensemble dans l'examen du temps. Jusqu'à nos morts, nous serons ensemble. Alors, je te demande, épousera tu moi?"

"Bloody shit," Arthur said under his breath, being proficient in the other language. "This is real, isn't it?" He took a moment to gather his wits about him before adding, "You really want this for us, don't you?"

Another nod answered him as his beau continued to gaze wistfully at him.

Rising to his feet and causing the candle to flicker, the Englishman put had his free hand over Francis', struggling to hide his joy. "If it's my heart you want, you already have it," he had said, choosing his words carefully. If it's my hand you want, then you shall have it. Yes, Francis Bonnefoy, I will marry you."


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey, lovlies!

I'm putting Novocaine and Verheddert on the back burners until after I finish this, as this is my Halloween Piece. I'll update it every Monday until Halloween!

The AU this takes place in belongs to the lovely Ask-Aph-Fruk of Tumblr. A huge thanks goes out to them! If you want to see where the plot of this is going, check out their Death Of A Bachelor post.

Fyi, the era is Victorian-esque, the exception being gay marriage. Because yeah.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _While one may often appreciate what they have, they do not know the extent of their adoration until they lose it._

The sky was grey, as usual, as the coach passed through the busy streets of London. Though many would have found this weather to be dismal, the passenger of the carriage was unfazed by the cloudy sky. He kept quiet, as he had both no reason to talk and no one to talk to. Studious green eyes stared out the window, and seeing the familiar townhouses, he knew he would arrive soon. Hastily, he ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, trying but failing to make it look presentable.

"We are here, sir," the driver said as the coach came to a stop. Once the door was opened, he stepped down with a certain grace only seen from those of high society, pressing the payment into the driver's hand. "A good day to you, sir."

"And a good day to you, as well," Arthur said, stepping off the street and towards the red brick apartment he knew so well. Fiddling with his collar, he rapped curtly on the verdigree door, awaiting someone to let him in.

The manservant, Jacob, was the one to answer. "Good day, Mister Kirkland," he said, bowing slightly.

"Good day," Arthur replied. "I'm here to visit Francis."

Before he could enter the townhouse, the Jacob stopped him. "I would not visit now, if I were you," he explained. "Francis is not not feeling well today. He complains of a headache and fever."

"If it's only that, then let me in. Surely, it cannot be terribly bad. Aside from that, if he is truly feeling ill, perhaps I can keep him company. After all," he added, "I am his fiancée." While he did not enjoy playing the fiancée card, he had to acknowledge its usefulness. He thanked Jacob as he was allowed inside, walking up the staircase and down the hall that he knew all too well to the room of his beloved.

Carefully, so as not to disturb him too much, he knocked on the glossy door. To his satisfaction, the voice from within said, "Come in." Having permission, he entered the well-decorated room. There was a gentle fire blazing in the fireplace by the writing desk, but Arthur only focused on the figure under the silken sheets of the bed.

Even at his worst, Francis looked his best. His locks sprawled across the pillow upon which his head rested, lustrous like gold, and a gentle smile crossed his face as Arthur entered the room. And his eyes, oh! They sparkled like the finest sapphires, clear and bright.

In the eyes of Arthur, he was perfection.

"Hello," he said simply, striding to the bed and taking Francis' hand, pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

"Salut, black sheep," the reply came, lacing his fingers with Arthur's. Chuckling slightly, the Englishman pulled a chair over from, sinking down into it. "This is a nice surprise, non?"

"It was meant to be. Are you alright?"

Francis nodded. "I've had fevers before. I'll be fine."

"Even so, try not to strain yourself," came the reply, hints of worry in Arthur's voice. "We'll be married in less than a fortnight, and I know that you'll want to be well by then."

"I know, I know," the Frenchman chuckled slightly. "You worry too much, mon cher. Lighten up."

"I can't help it... I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I promise that nothing will." This time, it was Francis' turn to kiss Arthur's hand. "No matter what, things will work out."

Not being able to help but give a small smile, he nodded. "If you say so."

~x~X~x~

He was not able to visit again for another three days. Though still young, the Englishman had a title to uphold, being in line to inherit the family business. Each day, like a proper businessman, he attended the meetings with the clients and took care of everything. The whole time, however, his mind stayed on Francis, desperately wanting the man to become better. To be able to feel the brief yet sweet kisses against his lips once again.

When he could finally visit again, Jacob was even more reluctant to let him in.

"It's gotten worse," the manservant said. "He has the chills and a rash. It's likely Scarlet Fever."

Arthur's heart sank slightly, knowing the disease was not to be taken lightly. "Well..." He reasoned after thinking for a moment or two, "He shouldn't be contagious anymore. Let me in. I want to see him."

And in a short amount of time, he was once again sitting next to Francis' bed, their fingers laced. Many would have been aghast about the red patches littering the pale skin or the swollen glands in his neck, but Arthur ignored them as he tried to look on the bright side, more for his sake than for Francis'.

"You'll be fine," Arthur promised, holding Francis' hand tightly. The Frenchman laughed weakly, yet still not bitterly.

"Certainly. A doctor is coming tomorrow," he stated in a hushed, slightly strained voice. "I'll be fine before our wedding. You'll see."

He rubbed circles against Francis' hand with his thumb, outwardly setting his worries aside for his fiancé. In his mind, he took note to cancel his plans for the week so he could stay with him.

The next two days, he stayed with Francis, in the same chair next to the mahogany bed. As promised, the doctor had come, prescribing bedrest and bitters until the illness went away. Arthur listened to his words carefully, memorizing the details of the diagnoses, his hand holding Francis's the entire time.

"Thank you, Doctor," Francis had said, smiling slightly as the man packed up his bag, leaving the room to collect his payment. "See? Nothing to worry about."

For a moment after he left, the world was still, aside from the smoldering fire just mere moments from being extinguished. The overcast sky could be seen from the windows and was a faint shade of grey, heavy curtains partially obstructing the view and dimming the light in the room further as they were silent, enjoying the blissful moments of reassurement.

It worked for a while, Arthur's paranoia being laid to rest for the time being. The doctor had given Francis his diagnosis and told him how to get better. It was going to be fine. Everything would work out, and they would be married in less than a fortnight. Everything would be perfection.

And yet after a while, unexplainably, the sense of dread came back to him. The same feeling that one may feel before a bad storm, or the feeling one might have that keeps them from leaving their house on a certain day, miraculously preventing some evil to befall them. And he just couldn't shake it away.

"It's fine," he promised himself as Francis lay in a feverish sleep, a damp cloth across his forehead. "It's going to be fine." He told himself over and over again that he was fine and that he could leave to do work if need be. And yet he stayed there, convinced that if he left then some terrible fate would befall them.

He fell into a dreamless sleep with Francis's hand still gripped in his own.

In the morning when he awoke, the sky was still grey, but a darker shade. It would rain later. Once again, everything was still. Quietly rising to his feet so as to not disturb Francis, he walked over to the fireplace, adding tinder and striking a match to relight it and warm the cold room. The weather was dreary and the doctor had said that Francis would have a fever and chills. A fire would warm the room and turn the dreary day into a cozy one.

With the fire now crackling, he returned to his chair, gently taking his fiancée's hand again, as he often did. His hands were cold and clammy.

"That's strange," he thought to himself, gently rubbing his hand against Francis' in a hope to create friction to warm his skin once again. Lost in thought, Arthur's slender fingers lingered a second too long over the Frenchman's wrist.

His eyes widened.

Hastily, he pressed his fore and middle finger to the now dark vein running along Francis' wrist, waiting to count. Choking back a sob and praying for the dull throb that proved life.

But it never came.

"No," he whispered breathlessly, unaware of the salty tears now flowing across his face. "This can't be. No. No. No."

Half of an hour later, when Jacob came to change the rags from last night, he was greeted by the sight of Arthur grasping Francis' hand as if his life depended it, silently sobbing over the chest of his dead fiancée.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: Hey, lovelies!

I'm really glad I got this chapter out on time... it took a lot of re-writing. Writer's block coles at the worst times...

A big thank you to all of you lovelies who favorited, followed, and reviewed. I fidn't expect this to take off so well, but it certainly was a lovely surprise.

As stated before, the AU this takes place in belongs to ask-aph-fruk of Tumblr (I absolutely loved the art, by the way. Thank you so much!)

The next update shall be October 10th.

And now, let us return to our story.

* * *

Francis always looked his best, even at his worst.

His funeral was no exception.

His locks, now listless and stiff, rested upon the pillow behind his head. Instead of the gentle smile he had once worn daily in life, an out-of-place, stiff and emotionless expression laid across his face. The once sparkling blue eyes were covered by his eyelids, never to see the light of day again. Only trace amounts of color remained on his pale face from where the blood had settled once his heart ceased pumping. Held in his cold, dead hands were two white lilies made of fabric; the same flowers that had been made to deccorate the wedding, now nothing more than a somber reminder.

And yet, to Arthur, he was still the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes on, albeit in a sense far too tragic to describe with words alone. The same face that he had once loved, the one that was supposed to be smiling at that exact moment on thst very day had been contorted into an expression that it would have never made otherwise. He was beautiful because he was Francis, and yet he was tragic for the same reason.

Heaving a sigh, he strode away from the open casket, not being able to bear looking upon him anymore. The attendees flooded in with their condolances and their respects, and each one pushed them closer to the point of breaking. Though unintentional, each condolance was nothing more than a reminder, in Arthur's eyes. A reminder that Francis was gone.

The wedding-turned-funeral went by somberly, but without a hitch. He stayed silent the entire time, fearing that if he tried to say anything, he would fall apart. As the coffin was lowered into the ground and buried, he focused only upon his own shoes, not being able to look up.

And once the last of the dirt was packed in over the grave, it was over. All at once, Francis was gone.

Slowly, the attendees made their way from the grave, some leaving flowers in their stead. Silently, Arthur left a single red rose before turning to leave and return back home to where nothing but sorrows awaited him.

"Beau-fils," he heard from behind him. Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with the mother of his deceased fiancée. Her eyes were of the same blue hue, and he did his best to hide the sinking of his heart upon being reminded once again.

"Bonjour, madame," Arthur said politely, undure what else to say. What was one supposed to say to someone who had just lost their only son? He did not know.

Her black mourning gown brushing against the ground, she stepped foward and pulled him into a hug, each face hidden from the other as she gently wept into his shoulder, and he found himself fighting back tears once again as he returned her embrace.

"C'ira d'accord," she said. "est parti, mais nous irons d'accord. Et un jour, tu le verras encore... Mais pour maintennont, on dois rester fort."

He wanted very badly to believe her, but only one word resonated with him. Gone. Francis was gone. He was gone, and nothing could be done about it.

And the fact shattered him yet again.

Thanking her and giving her his condolances in return, he left her embrace, solemnly making his way to his coach, pulling the curtains closed as he entered.

Before the reigns had cracked, Arthur was already choking back silent tears once again.

~x~X~x~

Although a complete and still silence filled the house, Arthur was still unable to sleep.

For hours earlier, he had been sobbing and mourning yet agan, choking on the cries that would have made his valet worry too much. But now, it was night and they had left to be with their own family and the townhouse was silent.

Thin trails left by tear stains still marred his face, but he was too emotionally drained to bother wiping them away.

He simply lay there, cluthing the down comforter as if attempting to use it to block out any memories of the condolances from earlier. It was true that he was still unbearably sad, of course, but with unbearable sadness comes excrutiating exhaustion, and all he wanted was for the waves of sleep to crash over him, pulling him into their midst like a riptide.

The gentle ticking of the clock marched on, steadfast, and yet he still could not sleep. His mind could simply not stop buzzing with thoughts, and his efforts to block them out were futile. From across London Town, he could hear the sound of Big Ben. Twelve times the bell had rung.

Groaning in annoyance, Arthur turned onto his side. He had been awake for eighteen hours straight. Staring into the darkness of the room, he heaved a sigh yet again as he reached over to turn on the kerosine lamp. If he couldn't distract himself through sleep, he'd distract himself using literature.

Reaching for the book laying on the bedside table, his fingers brushed against smooth glass, knocking the vial off the table. Angered by his own stupidity, he sat up looking for anything that had spilled so he could clean it up appropriately.

He smelled it before he saw it. It was the wedding present he had bought for Francis. The strong smell of rum, with hints of cinnamon and vanilla. The scent of warm hugs and kisses that lingered for longer than what was publically acceptable. It smelled like Francis, more specifically the aftershave that he always wore and that Arthur had grown to love. Memories of what had been and what now never would be flooded back to him from where he had stowed them away, along with the sadness that came with knowing he would never experience them again.

With no one else around to see, he let out a sob without bothering to hide it and succumbing to the demons of his depression yet again. He knew that Francis was gone. Why did the universe have to rub the fact in his face?

The scent and the emotions overwhelming, he fled from the room in a vain effort to calm down. Taking heavy breaths, he meandered through the hallways for what could have been hours, trying and ultimately failing to calm down.

And all at once, he stopped as if he had seen something. He had seen something. He was sure that something besides himself had moved. And yet when he looked around, the only thing he could see besides the iminant darkness was window behind him and the mirror to his left.

Arthur couldn't help but see his reflection, cringing upon seeing his own snivelling face, red and all but covered in tears. Yet in the cold moonlight, he could clearly see a sad pair of eyes staring at him. A pair of sad, cerulean eyes and a hand on his shoulder, yet he felt nothing.

Shocked, he stumbled backwards, frantically looking around. "Francis?" He asked, yet he saw no one.

"Arthur?"

His eyes widened. He must have been halucinating. Yet when he looked into the mirror, clear as day, he could see his equally-astounded beloved staring back at him through the reaction. Arthur choked back a sob.

"Please," he prayed, "don't let this be a dream."

"I do not understand," Francis said, apparently looking all around himself. "You can see me?"

"Yes, yes I can," Arthur replied, once again looking behind himself yet seeing nothing. "How? And why?"

"I don't know," Francis replied. "I've been watching you this whole time, mon amour. You seem so sad..."

"As if you wouldn't be... I lost you. And yet, here you are..." He put his hand up against the glass of the mirror, still unable to believe any of what was happening.

"Don't worry," Francis insisted, smiling slightly and appearing to lean into Arthur's touch. "I'm alright. I'm alright." Smiling slightly, Arthur wiped his face, but his smile faltered when the apparition spoke again. "But I want you to move on."

"What?" Arthur asked, aghast. He backed away from the mirror. "You want me... to simply move on?"

"Oui. That's exactly what I'm saying. I can't take seeing you like this... I want to see you happy again."

His fists clenched, sadness turning quickly to anger. "You expect me to just up and move on after all this? You're dead, and you expect me to act like none of this bloody happened?"

"That's not what I'm saying..." Francis replied, putting his hands up in defence. "I only want you to move on and be happy again!"

"That's impossible!"

"How can that be impossible?" Francis snapped back. "It's not like it's impossible for you to feel happy again! I love you, cher, but you need to go on without me. For my sake, Arthur, sil te plaît..."

"I can't," Arthur said, practically pleading. "You've only just come back! I can't stand losing you yet again! You just... you can't understand..."

"Who says that I can't?" the Frenchman asked. "Just because I'm not alive doesn't mean I can't feel... and I've missed you every day... But I can't take seeing you like this. It's not healthy for you, lapin. And so I ask you - please - move on. I would feel better."

"Then don't leave yet," Arthur begged. "Not yet. Please. Just not yet."

Slowly, reluctantly, Francis nodded. "Oui. I won't leave yet."

"Thank you... Thank you, Francis."

As Big Ben rang six times, Arthur bid him goodbye until the next night before stumbling to his bed, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

French stuff:

"Beau-Fils" - son and law

"bonjour, madame," - "hello, madam"

"C'ira d'accord. Il est parti, mais nous irons d'accord. Et un jour, tu le verras encore... Mais pour maintennont, on dois rester fort." - "It will be alright. He's gone, but we will get through it. And one day, you will see him again, but we must be strong until then." (Something like that."


	4. Author's Note

Author's note:

Hey there, lovelies. I'm going to try to keep this short...

I've been sick for the past few days, so I have not been able to write for this next chapter. I'm super pissed about this (Because I almost NEVER get sick and this is a pain), and I'm also incredibly sorry.

I'm trying my best to write for this whenever I can, but it's a bit slow. This means that either the next chapter will be late, or I will combine it with the one for next weel. Hopefully, it will only be a delay.

I am incredibly sorry about this.

-YY


	5. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey, lovelies!

Finally, an update. It's a bit longer to make up for the delay.

I might make changes to this chapter a bit later, but if I do, I'll let you all know.

Also, check back to the previous chapter for the missing French translations!

* * *

He couldn't help but give a sigh of relief when Francis' reflection joined his own in the mirror that night.

The whole day, he had almost be too afraid to blink; afraid that if he did, he would awake from the dream in which he was, at least, able to see the face of his beloved.

And yet, if it was a dream, he had not yet awoken.

"You're here," he stated, relieved in this fact.

"Oui," Francis replied, smiling gently through the glass of the mirror, "I am. Hello, Arthur."

He managed to get a good look at the apperation. He looked the same, yet almost as if he was two-dimentional, in Arthur's eyes. And not even a solid two-dimentional figure, at that. He could see the wall behind him through Francis' reflection. It was unsettling.

Though it was unsettling, however, the figure was clearly him. The same blue eyes that gave him comfort and the same blonde hair that he admired was there in front of him. He still wore his funeral clothing, and it made Arthur's heart ache, but his relief that Francis was even there in the first place overwhelmed this feeling.

"You still look smashing," he said, desperate to break the silence that loomed over them so that he could hear his voice again. "Almost the same as... Well, the same as..." His voice faltered.

"I know, amour. I still think that you need to let go... but I promised you one more visit."

"That's right..." Arthur looked down, reminded of the somber truth that still remained. "Then... let's make the most of this; yeah? Other than... well, you know... have you been alright?" He asked.

Francis nodded to him. "Yes, I have been well." He skipped asking his beau the same, as he already knew the answer. "And... how is my mother?"

"She's alright... In mourning, still, but otherwise alright... She misses you."

"And I miss everything, lapin."

Yet another heavy silence followed.

"I miss how we used to be," Arthur finally said.

"As do I. But it can not be like that again..."

"Please, don't say that..."

"It is true, regardless," Francis explained. "I don't know why I'm still here... but even if I am, I want you to live a normal life, amour... And that means moving on." He seemed visably uncomfortable with his words, and it made Arthur's heart ache all but better.

"I don't want to," he said outright, causing Francis to stare at him. "You told me this last night... but I don't want to move on. Not without you."

"That almost sounds romantic..." the Frenchman said sadly. "But it's not healthy for you to stay hung up on this, Arthur."

"You can't just expect me to bloody move on, either," the Englishman muttered in response. "You understand as well, right? You have to understand…"

"I do," Francis agreed. "That doesn't make it okay for one to remain hung up over something. It pains me to see you like this… I could see you through every mirror; it was painful to see you, amour… and I just want to see you happy. Please, lapin, for me."

"I can't be happy without you, though…"

The silence became thick yet again.

"Francis… if you're stuck in mirrors anyway, can't you please just stay? Please?"

"What?" Francis asked, his eyes widening slightly. "Wouldn't that be inconvenient?"

"How so?" Arthur questioned. "Being with you again more than makes up for any inconvenience."

"But…" he bit his lip. "You can only see me at night… and you have a family business to help run… You'd become exhausted. How can it be worth it?"

"Because I love you, Francis," Arthur said, exasperated. "Just please. Stay with me; I don't care about being tired. I don't care about any of the consequences! Just please…" he looked to him, fear of losing his lover yet again in his eyes. "I beg of you, Francis. Stay with me."

Reluctantly, Francis nodded. "If it will make you smile again… then I will stay, lapin."

~x~X~x~

No one understood why the esteemed servant of the residence of Arthur Kirkland was suddenly fired, or why whenever he went out, he would return with several flat, oblong objects in brown paper packaging. They could not figure out why, three months after the death of his fiancée, he still bore dark circles under his eyes; the kind usually brought about by sadness, exhaustion, or both. And yet he did not seem sad or tired at all.

The rumors spread around the neighborhood that he had found a mistress to keep him company. That he had taken an affinity to paintings. That while over his grief, he had been left with insomnia. That he had finally gone mad due to his loss.

The latter, they decided, could be ruled out, as he still seemed prim and proper in public, but behind his back they watched his actions.

He didn't seem at all affected by this. He simply wasn't.

The people could speak of him all they wanted, but he had Francis yet again, and that was all that mattered to him. It became normal for him to stare into a looking glass for hours at night, wasting the hours away as he conversed with his beau as though the arrangement was not weird at all.

As time progressed, so did their comfortability in the arrangement. It never once seemed weird or obscure to either. Through countless hours of trial and error, Arthur was soon able to quite literally waltz around the house with Francis, granted that he had to keep his position just right, but it was all so very worth the effort.

"That was lovely," Francis said to him one night as he bowed in a teasing manner after their dance.

"I'm glad that you thought so," Arthur said with a smile, pleased in the fact that things were becoming easier to do things like a couple again. How he had missed it terribly for the time between Francis' death and meeting him once again. It felt perfect yet again. Stifling a yawn, he asked, "What would you like to do now, love?"

"Are you tired?" Francis asked him, more than a hint of concern evident in his voice. It was no secret that he still felt bad for upsetting his beau's sleep schedule, no matter how much the other insisted it was fine.

"I'm fine. I slept earlier."

"Mon lapin," he sighed, "You know I will not be offended if you sleep."

"Even so," Arthur said indignantly. "That means I'd be spending less time with you."

"Oh, don't try that on me." Francis' reflection walked to the next mirror, Arthur following suite. "You need sleep, so just sleep. Can't you do that for me?"

Francis' concern over his lover's sleeping habits showed, and Arthur couldn't help but allow the words of worry, along with his own exhaustion, convince him that he did, in fact, need to sleep. "Alright, alright... but only for your sake." Ignoring the victorious smirk on Francis' face, he entered his room, changing into his bedclothes and lying down.

Tiredly, yet satisfied, he glanced over to the mirror that he kept propped against the lamp on his bedside table. "Good night, love."

"Bonne nuit, Arthur," Francis replied, smiling gently.

~x~X~x~

As time passed and the peculiar behavior of Arthur Kirkland did not show signs of disappearing, more of the people close to him grew concerned. Weeks and months passed by until eventually, it had been a full two years since the odd behavior began. The darkness below his eyes seemed permanent, and often times, he could be found staring off into what many thought was blank space. Upon careful observation did some discover that he appeared to be staring at the reflections in glass or mirrors, though most did not take the time to discover this.

"I'm perfectly fine," he had told his brothers whenever they visited. To all of the clients he met, he did his best to mask his quirks that he had gained. While reassured slightly each time, their suspicions still remained.

And then, Francis' mother came to visit for the day.

Immediately upon recieving her, the air around them was far more terse than usual, and he knew it as soon as he saw her evident concern.

"Il a était une longtemps," she said, coming to her senses as he welcomed her inside, smiling a gentle smile, pulling him into her embrace. He could tell that it was masking her concern, but said nothing about it.

"Oui, il a," he replied as he hugged her back. "Allais tu bien?"

"Oui, j'avais. Et toi?"

"J'allais d'accord," he said as he let go, smiling slightly. He wasn't lying, but the look she gave him seemed to say that she thought he was. "A tu une raison particulière pour visiter?"

"There is, in fact," she admitted, slipping into heavily accented English. Arthur frowned slightly. She only spoke to him in English when something was off.

"Then… what is it?" he asked in a hushed tone, leading her to the parlor. Marianne glanced about the hallway as they walked, seemingly befuddled by the several mirrors that practically hid the entirety of the walls.

"Your brothers are worried about you," she explained as she sat down, and Arthur's heart sank a bit.

So that's what it was.

"I have no idea why," he explained. "I've been perfectly fine, maman. There's nothing to worry about." He pursed his lips as he poured her cuppa, anxiously awaiting and yet dreading her response.

"They say," she continued, "that you've been acting strangely for the past year or so, since the funeral."

"That's odd," he said a little to quickly, cutting her off. "I've been feeling fine."

"Is it true, though?" she asked. "A question: have you moved on yet?"

He responded with silence.

"Arthur," she said to him, sipping her tea. "I'm very upset too, but you need to move on."

"You don't understand," he insisted. "I'm not upset at all. I'm fine. I haven't moved on from Francis... but I'm still fine."

"Then why do you act so strangely? Please, tell me. I won't tell your brothers."

He remembered the sense of security he normally felt around Marianne, sighing as he ran his hand through his hair. Arthur knew she was good for her word.

"I've been seeing him."

"Excusez-moi?"

"I've been seeing him," he reiterated, explaining to her all that had happened over the past twenty four months. The night that he had met Francis again. The meetings. The mirrors. Nearly everything came pouring out of him, and he couldn't stop it, not bothering to look up until he was finished.

Her eyes shone with more concern than ever, and he knew that she didn't believe him. In her eyes, she likely now saw him as a lunatic, and the more he thought about what he had said, the more he believed himself to be. Under her breath, he heard her mutter, "C'est pas quoi j'ai veux dire quand je l'ai dit il le verrait encore..."

The clock struck four. "I have to go," she said to him, uncharacteristically in a rush to leave as she gathered her things.

A quick awkward hug was all he recieved after walking her to her coach, leaving him alone with his thoughts, anxiously awaiting sundown.

The more he thought about the events of the past two years, the more out-of-the-ordinary they seemed, granted the fact they were already strange. Arthur paced up and down the hallways as he pondered. It was true that he coukd not make physical contact with his beaux–at least, contact that he could feel in reality. What if everything was in his head, as it now appeared that more than a fair share of people seemed to believe so. And if it was all the halucinations of his still grief-stricken brain due to being unable to let go, then what would he do? His thoughts ebbed through his mind as his doubts in his mental state grew.

"Arthur?" He turned around to see the reflection of Francis in one of the several parlor mirrors. He had not realized how late the time had grown. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all; simply waiting for you," Arthur replied, smiling as he greeted him. Though always awaiting nightfall when he saw Francis again, he was greatful for a second reason that evening.

The distraction from the worries that had already taken up residence in his mind.

* * *

Dialogue between Marianne and Arthur:

"It's been a while,"

"Indeed, it has. Have you been well?"

"Yes, I have. And you?"

"I've been fine. Is there a particular occasion you're visiting for?"

C'est pas quoi j'ai veux dire quand je l'ai dit il le verrait encore - "This is not what I meant when I told him that he'd see him again."


	6. Chapter 4

A/N:

Hey, lovelies!

Whew! We're getting close to the end now. Finally, I will have completed a work that is not a oneshot. As promised, the final chapter will be published on Halloween. A heads up: If I have time, I may edit the chapter from last week so that the story flows a bit better.

Thank you all again for all the kind reviews! They really make my day.

Please, enjoy!

-YY

* * *

In an almost comical sense, it was as though the honeymoon period had worn off. Driven by his own paranoia, Arthur had not stopped questioning himself about the events of the past two—now going on three—years. In his mind, the debate between him and himself raged on as his mind desperately tried to separate reality from fantasy. Was it all in his mind? It felt real to him. He wanted so desperately for it to be real, but he still wasn't sure. There was no tangible proof to be found, and it drove him mad to not know.

Even if it was real, as he prayed it was, the lack of contact brought up by the first problem still bothered him beyond reason. It was the simple things that he missed; the warm feel of Francis' hand in his. The welcoming aroma of bay rum that always came with a close embrace. The gentle sensation of Francis' lops against his own. And, while he adored the time spent with Francis, it was now a double-edged sword to him, both ridding him of loneliness and reminding him of the fact that he was, in a sense, still forever alone.

In short, it was torture. He both loved and loathed it.

And despite all of this, he kept it all to himself. If Francis truly was there, it would break his heart more so to upset him.

Sitting on the sofa, he pondered everything for the fourth time that day, unaware of the setting sun that was visible in the window behind him. The rosy light grew dimmer and dimmer, but the fact went unnoticed as he stared blankly into space.

"Something wrong, cher?" He flinched, drawn quickly back to reality as the sound of Francis' voice hit his ears.

"I'm thinking," he said matter-of-factly. It wasn't untrue.

"Oh?" Francis sat down next to his reflection in the mirror. "About what, exactly?"

Heaving a sigh, Arthur bit his lip. He deserved to know, did he not? "About all of this…"

"Oh?"

"It's just… How does one know if this is real or not?" Before Francis could open his mouth to answer, he continued. "It's just… a few months ago, when your mother visited… I told her. I told her everything. And… well, she clearly didn't believe me. I could see the look in her eyes. She thinks I've gone bloody mad. It's got me thinking, you know… Maybe I have gone mad."

"You're over-reacting, mon lapin…" Francis tried. "You know my mother doesn't believe in the… how do you say… supernatural. It only makes sense for her to not believe you."

"But it makes sense, doesn't it?" Arthur snapped, looking to Francis with a mix of worry and desperation on his face. "It started after you died, when I was at my absolute worst… What if you're just some stupid coping mechanism I've dreamt up for myself?" Realizing what it was he had said, he quickly added, "Oh, love… I didn't mean it like that…"

"Non," Francis said, smiling sadly. "I understand, cher. It does seem hard to believe, doesn't it?"

"Hard to believe?" the Englishman asked, laughing halfheartedly as he turned away from the mirror that held his beau's reflection. "It's a nightmare… and the fact that there's nothing to prove that this is reality doesn't bloody help, either! It's like what I said earlier; no one bloody believes me!"

"But you believe yourself?"

He paused, currently unaware of the tears streaming down his face. "I… I just don't know what to believe…"

The silence that followed "Then… just don't think about it. I'll leave you be, Arthur." Francis said.

As Francis left without Arthur's noticing, the demons of Arthur's mind plagued the Englishman relentlessly.

~x~X~x~

It had been a fortnight, and Francis still had not shown up. Six months since he had visited every night. Nine since had stayed the whole night. Nearly another year since the death of Francis.

Every night for the past fourteen days, Arthur had taken his seat by his favorite mirror as he waited, unwavering, for hours on end; from dusk until dawn. And yet not once had he seen the slightest trace of blonde hair, nor the faintest trace of cerulean.

"It's all in my head," he muttered to himself every morning. "It's all in my head, and I haven't seen him in two weeks since I've finally come to terms with it." His suspicions were confirmed.

And yet, he could not convince himself to believe his own eyes or words. In his subconscious, he stubbornly refused to believe that Francis was purely a figment of his imagination.

On the eighth night, he caught a glimpse of golden hair from behind the drapery's reflection. Instead of the relief he had expected to feel, there was more than just that mixed into his emotions. Not only relief, but anger and betrayal.

"Where on earth have you been?" he asked, straightforward. Hesitantly, Francis' figure appeared from behind the curtain.

"Je suis desole," The Frenchman said somberly.

"'I'm sorry' isn't an explanation, now is it?"

"You need to let go, Lapin," Francis said to him, giving him a serious look. Arthur froze. "I can't have you going on like this."

Angrily, Arthur wiped the tears from his eyes. "And you honestly think that just taking yourself out of the picture will fix anything? For fuck's sake, Francis; that only makes it worse!"

"That's easy for you to say," the Frenchman argued back.

"It's not!" Arthur snapped. "It's been a living ell not bing able to hug or hold you close... not being able to hold your hand... not being able to kiss you... don't make this nightmare worse by leaving for good! At least give me some fucking warning!"

The anger dying slightly, Francis asked, "If I had told you that I had to leave you for you needed to move on, how would you have reacted?"

"I'd tell you to not leave, of course!"

"Exactly," he looked at him sadly.

The heavy, awkward silence that often came between the couple settled in the room once again.

"Don't leave."

"It's not healthy for you if I stay," Francis insisted yet again.

"And it won't be healthy if you just bloody leave."

"Well, what else do you want me to do?"

Sighing as he ran a hand through his hair, Arthur looked out his window. The moonlight was balmy, faintly illuminating the calm and quiet street below him as he thought, muttering to himself.

"… married," he muttered.

"What?" Francis asked him.

"Let's get married," Arthur said again, still quietly, but with more confidence this time. "We never did get married. So let's do it."

Stunned, Francis bit his lip. "Lapin, I'm not sure if that will help…"

"Please." Arthur pleaded with his eyes. "I'm begging you. It'd be… It would be like closure. It would make me feel better if we were…"

Hesitantly, Francis nodded slowly. "If it will help you move on… Then I am for it. Yes, Arthur Kirkland, I will marry you."

* * *

A/N: No, I could not restrain myself from using that parallelism there at the end.


	7. Chapter 5

A/N: Hey, lovelies!

We finally made it to the last chapter! I'm rather happy with it, in all honesty. I'd also like to wish you all a happy Halloween!

Once again, I would like to thank Ask Aph Fruk (heyhellohowdy) for allowing me to write for this AU and for their lovely art, as well as all of the readers and reviewers. I hope that you all enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

(the French in this chapter is basically Francis askibg Arthur if he is ok.)

-YY

* * *

Everything had been prepared in less than a week, as there was not much to prepare. After all, who would possibly come to a wedding where the groom was nonexistent to all but his fiancée? No, that would never do. In fact, the whole event was more of a symbolic affair, with no one to marry them and no one to bear witness.

They had chosen the thirty-first of October as their date; the original date of the wedding and the date of the funeral. It seemed appropriate to Francis to end the mourning and sadness on the anniversary of when it began, and Arthur had quickly agreed.

"Besides," he reasoned, "they say that that is the day where the realms of the living and the dead are most closely aligned. It would feel as though you were closer to me."

"Then it's decided," Francis said to him with a smile.

Faintly, Arthur smiled back. "I can hardly wait, love."

"Then," Francis said as his reflection stood up from his seat next to Arthur, "I bid you adieu until tomorrow night, lapin,"

"I will see you then," he agreed as the first light of morning sun entered the room. As if he were never there, Francis was gone.

As soon as he was, the smile quickly faded from Arthur's face as he laced his fingers together, brooding as he stared vacantly out the window, contemplating as he waited for the hour when the shops would be open.

~x~X~x~

The ceremony, as one would expect, was not only short but awkward; barely more than an exchange of vows. Neither could deny the fact that they enjoyed it, however, as the small setting in the familiar parlor only made the ordeal more intimate.

Upon the Frenchman's appearance, Arthur smiled slightly and stood, his hands shaking profusely.

"Are you alright, lapin?"

"Just nerves," the Englishman replied, a bit too quickly. Francis raised an eyebrow, but smiled as he brushed his thoughts aside.

"There is no need to be," he promised. "It's only you and I. It will be perfect."

"I do hope so," Arthur agreed, quaking slightly as he strode over to the mirror, taking his place.

Francis had been the one to begin. "Arthur, mon lapin, there is no other way to say it. I love you. More than anything else, I love you, and if nothing else, I want to see you happy. And if this is what it takes to see you smile, then it is something I would do a hundred times over. Je taime, mon lapin."

Smiling softly upon Francis finishing, Arthur started upon his half of the vows. "Francis…" he paused, taking a shaky breath. "I honestly don't know what there is to say… Just… thank you. You've always been here for me, and while the past few years have most certainly been rough, you've stayed here for me. I really appreciate it, and I love you. I love you so much."

Unsure of what to do, next, the pair awkwardly smiled at each other.

"Should we kiss?" Francis asked after a moment.

"I'm not sure how to…" Arthur admitted after a moment. "It'd be odd, don't you think?"

"Only if you make it odd, lapin~"

"Oh, shut it…" closing his eyes, he hesitantly leaned forward, kissing the cold, smooth glass. "There. Happy?"

"Very," Francis purred, smiling slightly.

"Good." Slowly and still shaking, Arthur walked to the table next to the sofa, gingerly taking the glass of wine he had poured earlier for himself.

"Arthur, you're still shaking…"

"It's nothing," he insisted.

"You've been shaking all evening…"

"Don't worry about it."

"But amour…"

"A toast," the Englishman insisted, raising his glass above his head, the dark red liquid still shaking as much as his hand was. Hesitantly, he swallowed. "To… to the death of a bachelor." Francis watched as Arthur slowly brought the glass to his lips.

It barely made it halfway there.

Dropping the glass, he brought both his hands to his throat as he began to cough profusely, losing his balance as he hit the floor.

"Arthur!" Francis screamed, unable to run to his side. Horrified, he could do nothing more than watch as his husband writhed on the floor, seemingly choking.

"Que ce passe-t-il!? Est-ce que tu vas bien!?"

~x~X~x~

The evening of the wedding, he had sat in the armchair in front of the mirror, afraid to do much of anything. The pitcher of water that had been half full not a quarter hour before had become drained as his shaking hands brought the glass to his lips, finishing the last of the ice cold drink.

The empty wrappings from the arsenic lay on the coffee table—"For rats," he had told the apothecary. "I have quite the problem, and hounds are no good to me." Thus, he had been able to leave with enough of the poison to kill a man.

He knew for a fact that it was working. He had drained the pitcher twice, and had honestly spent more time retching in the loo than actually getting ready.

He hoped that Francis would understand. Everything was too much, and his heart too heavy to go on. To him, it was the one last solution. "Better than dying alone," he had reasoned to himself.

Heaving himself from the chair, he had hidden the wrappings from the drug beneath the carpet.

"Arthur?" Francis had asked upon seeing him kneeling on the ground. "What are you doing?"

"I dropped my lapel pin," he had said quickly, adjusting it as he stood to make his lie more believable.

~x~X~x~

The Frenchman could barely bring himself to look upon the corpse again. He knew that it was Arthur's intention to do this, and that made his death hurt that much more.

Sitting on his knees, he did nothing but sob. "How could he?" he asked to no one in particular. "He said that he'd move on… He promised that he would move on…" choking back another cry, he wiped his face. "How could he…"

With tears still streaming down his face, he rose to his feet, daring at last to gaze upon his dead husband's listless body. It was tragic to look upon; his unmoving form upon its side, even in death still appearing to be choking. On what, he did not know. Jade eyes, now forever hidden from the world. Messy blonde hair, never to be messed with again.

Arthur Kirkland, devoid of life, lying on the floor for none but Francis' eyes.

And out of the corner of his eye, he saw something stir. Tensing, he slowly looked up, and a pair of far too familiar emerald irises met his own indigo ones.

"Lapin…" he breathed, earning a nervous smile from the other.

With no regard for the fact that the apparition of Arthur was on the other side of the glass, he rushed at him, pleasantly surprised to find himself in his embrace. Casting a quick glance behind him, he saw the looking glass behind him.

He was out.

And above all, he was with Arthur.

Tears still falling from his face, but now out of joy, he rested his forehead against Arthur's. "I'm here. I'm here, my love," Arthur laughed softly.

"So you are," Francis said with a slight smile. "I can't believe you… what happened to your promise?"

"I didn't want to move on without you…"

"That's not as romantic as it sounds."

"I really can't... well, couldn't go on like that for any longer. I know what you said, Francis, but... I just... please accept this...," Arthur pleaded.

"It's already happened… I have to…" Francis sighed. "I can't believe that you did... that you did that." Pursing his lips, he looked down, emotions conflicting within him.

The Englishman hesitated. "But you're still happy to have your husband…?"

He wanted to be upset, and yet the simple pleasure of being with him again melted the anger to the point where it slipped throygh his fingertips. After contemplating, the Frenchman gave a soft chuckle, gently kissing Arthur.

"I have to admit that I am."

"Then kiss me again," Arthur requested with a slight smile.

Happily, the Francis obliged, their lips gently locking in a kiss. No longer was it chaste and nervous, but long and sweet and all that a true kiss should be as Francis's lips met Arthur's slightly chapped ones. Happily, the two of them melted into the bliss of the moment.

And once again, all was right in the world.


End file.
